The Night Crew

I’ll ride down with you.’’
    She got a jacket, and when Creek said, ‘‘Gun,’’ selfconsciously put the Smith in her jacket pocket, on the opposite side from her cell phone, which she carried by habit. ‘‘If the cops see us walking back at this time of night, they’ll stop us, and if they frisk us, I’ll be downtown again,’’ Anna said.
    ‘‘We’ll stop at Jerry’s, get a coffee. The sky’ll be getting light in a half hour, we can walk back then,’’ Creek said. ‘‘Besides,’’ he added, ‘‘we’re white.’’
    White.
    The way things worked in L.A. Still, the pistol felt like a brick in her pocket as they walked in the dark toward the truck. The truck represented a lot of heavy lifting. They’d started, five years earlier, with a rusty Dodge van, cast-off video gear and scanners, and a lot of metal shelving from Home Depot, which Louis and Creek had bolted to the floor. The floor on the Dodge leaked, both from rust-outs and the new bolt holes, and Louis sometimes emerged from the back suffering from advanced carbon monoxide poisoning.
    After three years of street work, building their reputation and their contacts, walking tapes around to the TV stations, they’d ditched the van and bought the truck from a cable station that had decided to get out of the news business. The truck came with the dish and a compressed-air lift; Louis put in the electronics. The dish alone saved hours every night: if they could see the relay antennas on the mountain—and they could from almost anywhere in the Los Angeles bowl— they could dump video and voice to everyone.
    And the equipment was getting better: Creek’s camera was almost new . . . Anna felt a little thump every time she saw the truck: a lot of work. Something she was good at.
    But she didn’t see the man by the truck until they were almost on top of him, she and Creek talking away, and Creek said, ‘‘Hey.’’
    The man turned—heavy shoulders, big hands, and she thought of Harper—but this guy was black. He said, ‘‘Anna?’’
    The question slowed Creek: Creek had gone into his longstride, somewhat-sideways combat approach, closing quickly. But now he hesitated, and Anna said, ‘‘Who is that?’’ and the man lifted an arm toward Creek, and Creek said, ‘‘No!’’ and went straight into him.
    The shots were loud, the gun spitting short, sharp spikes of fire at Creek, three times, four, five. Creek twisted, still moving in, while Anna clawed at her pocket. Then Creek was on him, reaching, and the man turned to run.
    His head snapped back and he screamed, and Anna gave up on the gun and started for Creek. The shooter snapped forward and began to run. Creek, let him go, Anna thought . . . the man disappeared down the street as Anna turned to Creek.
    And Creek fell down. Slumped, rolled, looked up at her.
    ‘‘Gun,’’ he groaned. ‘‘Get the gun out.’’
    ‘‘He’s gone . . .’’
    ‘‘Get gun, get gun,’’ he said, urgently, and Anna, not wanting to believe, dropped down next to him and said, ‘‘You’re okay?’’
    And in the dim light of the street, saw the black blood on his mouth, on his face and neck, the blood on his shirt.
    Lights were coming on down the street and she screamed, ‘‘Police, call the police, ambulance . . . man shot. This is Anna, call nine-one-one,’’ and someone shouted back, ‘‘I’m calling . . .’’
    Creek grabbed her by the coat and said something urgent but unintelligible. His hand was wrapped in fabric, and Anna plucked it away. A woman’s nylon stocking, a little darker than nude; maybe suntan. Creek had pulled it off the shooter’s head, snapping his head back. The shooter wasn’t black. He’d been wearing a mask.
    That all ran through her head in an instant, and then she tossed the stocking away and shouted down at him, ‘‘Are you okay? Goddamn, Creek . . .’’
    ‘‘Ahh . . .’’
    A man was running up the street toward her. ‘‘Anna?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, it’s me,’’ she shouted back, half-standing. ‘‘My friend is shot, somebody help.’’
    The man arrived, a neighbor named Wilson, stood uncertainly over her in bluebird pajamas. ‘‘Henry’s called the cops,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Gotta have an ambulance, he’s hurt bad,’’ Anna said, looking up at Wilson, eyes big.
    Another neighbor, Logan, was in the street, running toward them, a flashlight in one hand, a gun in the other. ‘‘Somebody hit?’’
    ‘‘Ambulance on the